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T H E D O G S Jonny had done well for himself. He married a pretty girl who was a favorite teacher at an elementary school. They had a pretty daughter and a handsome son. Five months out of the year, Jonny would leave his family over in Colorado and drive his mustard-yellow pick-up truck all the way across the country to Luray, South Carolina. He had enjoyable work with good pay at a special place: a nearly 25,000-acre stretch of land along the Savannah River called Arbella Plantation. Jonny was working as a hunting and fishing guide in Montana before he found Arbella, or rather, before Arbella found him. He had always been an outdoorsman, but he never felt good about staying in one place for too long. Growing up he had lived in twelve different places in eighteen years, and his father raised him to believe that there was something to be said for being easily adaptable. After three years of working in Montana, then, he put an ad in Gun Dog magazine, describing himself as “knowledgeable, enthusiastic, cautious, friendly, and experienced with both training and caring for dogs.” He included in the ad a photograph of himself with his own hunting dog, a young orange and white Brittany named Bone. First the photograph and then the entire advertisement caught the attention of Robbie Maner, a subscriber to the magazine and the manager of Arbella Plantation, which had been purchased in 1906 by his great uncle, Chester Maner. Chester had been a difficult man, an avid sportsman and a perpetual bachelor who wore a dress up until the age of ten. Since he was childless, upon his death he left the land to his brother Frederick, Robbie Maner’s grandfather. Frederick had three sons and two daughters, of which the daughters were, by Chester’s decree, ineligible to inherit. The land, therefore, ended up only in the hands of his male offspring, only one of whom produced boys. The place thus ended up in the hands of four Maner brothers after the fifth died in his early thirties. The Maners were based in the Northeast, but after going to college in California and then marrying a Southern woman, Robbie Maner moved down to Georgia, where his proximity to Arbella made him first in command. While all of the Maner brothers had some clout in what went on there, Robbie Maner had final say over such issues as hiring and firing. He was looking for a new assistant quail guide when he came across Jonny’s ad. The one that he had just let go, Daniel Wright, had been dismissed for reasons relating to his personality. Daniel Wright, in his mid-thirties, was pasty and overweight, sporting limp, greasy blond curls around the wide bald spot on the crown of his head. After working for the Maners for two years he was found out to be a racist man, and there were rumors that he was abusive to the dogs. Neither of those things cut it at Arbella. And so, when Jonny was just twenty-seven years old, Robbie Maner flew him and Bone to the plantation for an interview and a tour of the grounds. When it was agreed that they would start work the next November, Robbie Maner set out to arrange the details. “You can take your pick of the available houses on the land here,” he told Jonny. “Some are right near the main compound, and some are miles away. Depends on how much distance you want to keep between where you sleep and where you earn your bread,” he chuckled, then added, growing more serious, “I feel obligated to tell you, Jon, that the schools around here really aren’t so good.” “That’s all right, Mr. Maner,” Jonny said before he could continue. Once he started work, Jonny learned that when he was in the presence of four Mr. Maners it could get confusing, so he followed the lead of the other employees, addressing the owners as “Mr. Robbie” and so on. “I’ve been lucky enough to land a job ranching out in Colorado for the off-season. My wife’s a teacher, and she’s found a pretty good school out there, and the owner of the ranch was a friend of my father’s. He says it’s all right if they – my wife and my daughter, that is – stick around all year even while I’m down here.” Jonny lost some of his confidence and lowered his voice. “I know what you’re thinking. But honestly, it’s all right with her. We’ve talked about it a lot. She’s known since before she married me that I like to move around. She just doesn’t want to keep uprooting our daughter whenever I get restless. So this arrangement is kind of a compromise.” Robbie Maner smiled. All of the Maner brothers were kind, but Robbie Maner was the gentlest. He was tall and lean, in his early fifties and gray-haired, but still youthful and handsome. He had a pilot’s license and flew his own plane to Arbella, where there was a small airfield, and as soon as he arrived he changed into his self-imposed uniform of brown pants and a gray shirt, one step away from camouflage except for his hunter orange cap, which brandished the Arbella logo. “I’ve got a daughter, too,” he said softly. “I spend a lot of time here while she and my wife are back home, and even that can feel far away.” “Yes, sir,” Jonny agreed. “I’m not going to meddle in your family business, though, Jon. We’re just happy to have you.” He held out his hand, and Jonny shook it. “Thank you, sir. This is a real special place you’ve got here.” Between the time that Jonny left after that first visit and the time that he started work, Robbie Maner drew up his contract, which included a clause mandating that he make monthly trips to Colorado at the plantation’s expense. In addition, every Christmas, Jonny’s family would be flown out to Arbella for one week. By the time that Jonny was in his early thirties, the man who had been in charge of quail hunting for thirty years, an elderly black man whose family had lived on the land of Arbella since even before Chester Maner had bought it, retired. He had suffered a heart attack, and although the Maners let him work for a few months after his recovery, he eventually had to give in to his age. He continued to live on the land, and the Maners made a point of visiting with him whenever they were around. Jonny took over, and Robbie Maner enlisted him to help find another man to be his assistant. They agreed that the best candidate for the job was a harmless twenty-five year old named Charlie, a native to South Carolina with a great deal of respect for his superior. That did not stop him, however, from teasing Jonny about the way the teenaged Maner daughters would flirt with him as they rode along on horseback while their fathers hunted. Even the wives of the Maner brothers found Jonny handsome: he was rugged and dark with alarmingly blue eyes, and he managed to make the wad of chewing tobacco that he kept tightly packed in his cheek all day minimally repulsive. Best of all, he was a talker. He wanted to know what the younger Maners were studying in school and how the older Maners had gotten into their various professions. Still, he remained true to his advertisement: in spite of his sociability, he was cautious, and he was not afraid to cut short a conversation with either a Maner or one of their more intimidating guests for reasons of safety or the success of the hunt. The hunts always were successful, however. Arbella boasted a deer season, a pig season, and a turkey season, and once had a dove season as well before the birds became too scarce. The specialty was quail. When the wild quail population was decimated by red-tailed hawks, which the government mandated that Arbella protect, released quail were introduced to the land. Careful daily records were kept as to how many wild and how many released quail were shot and where. Friends of the Maners were thrilled when they were invited to come down for a few days during quail season, and the brothers even arranged the occasional trip for their business associates. They counted on Jonny, and he never let them down in picking the spots for the day, getting the horses saddled up, fueling the jeep, loading the dogs into the wagon, and arranging a location for lunch, where members of the kitchen staff would drive out to the hunting entourage with tables, chairs, and a spread of hot sherry-spiked consommé, biscuits, sandwiches, venison chili, beer, soda, fruit, and cookies. Jonny was told who would be coming out on the hunt, what their level of experience was, and whether they would prefer to ride on horseback or in the jeep. Robbie Maner would call him the night before with the information, unless there were special circumstances, in which case he would call as much as a week in advance. “Quite a hunt today, don’t you think, Jonny?” Robbie said enthusiastically over the phone one day in early December. “I thought we were out of luck, but conditions weren’t so bad considering how hot and dry it’s been.” “Oh, yes sir,” Jonny replied. “And no rattlers. Are you back in Georgia now?” “Back home, yep. But I’ll be back next week.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, Jonny, my brother James is going to be coming down next week, too.” “Well, that’s wonderful. Will he be bringing Mrs. James and the girls?” James’s family was Jonny’s favorite of the Maners. His wife had all sorts of interesting advice to give, and his daughters, though they made no effort to hide their interest in Jonny, were never at a loss for good stories and shocking jokes. “Not this time. He’s got a close friend in the Senate, a real experienced hunter and just a fantastic, wonderful guy. We’ve both known him for a long time. He’s agreed to come down to Arbella for a few days. He’s real excited about it.” “Yes, sir.” Jonny knew that while Robbie Maner sounded cheerful, something else was coming. “Anyway, Jonny, James called me, and he just wanted me to let everyone down here know that Clark – Clark Spencer, that’s his name – has got a friend coming down with him. This guy, his name’s Larry Croft, is – well, he’s a real asshole, Jonny.” Robbie Maner rarely said such things about anybody. “He loves hunting, though!” he laughed. “On a more serious note, though, he and Clark went to college together, and they had a sort of falling out a couple of years ago. Larry had a real drinking problem and I gather that he pretty much started causing a lot of trouble for the people in his life. There were some incidents.” He paused. “His wife divorced him, too, around that same time. Clark says he’s sobered up, but that he’s just a real sour guy. He found out a couple of months ago through his former mother-in-law that his ex-wife is six months into a battle with lymphoma, and I think it just broke his heart. She refuses to see him, no matter how much he pleads with her. And I think that this woman is just the love of his life, so – “ “Mr. Robbie, sir, that’s all right. I think I understand,” Jonny said softly. “Right. He’s bringing him down to try to lift his spirits. Even a real jerk deserves that.” “Oh, sure,” said Jonny. “Absolutely.” Jonny went to the main compound the first morning of the visit to greet the party and to lead them up the dirt road to the hunting compound, where the journey was set to begin. He had left Charlie in charge of making the necessary preparations. When Jonny arrived, the guests were already equipped to go, standing on the porch of one of the cabins. James, not as tall but just as handsome as Robbie Maner, stepped forward to shake Jonny’s hand. “Good to see you, Jonny,” he said with a smile. “Mr. James, hope things are well back home,” Jonny replied. “Thank you, Jonny. Jonny, this is my friend Clark Spencer, and his guest Larry Croft.” Both of the men stepped forward to shake Jonny’s hand. Clark was friendly looking, although he did have a senatorial air about him. He was, however, happily wearing the traditional Arbella cap that they had provided for him. Larry was tall but round, cushioned by thick layers of fat. He had big brown sideburns and chose to wear his regulation hunter orange in the form of a vest, which was too small for him to zip up. His face was expressionless. They started the walk up to the hunting compound, where Charlie was standing with four horses saddled up and ready to go. The other seven horses were grazing in their generous pasture. Some of the horses at Arbella were plagued by laziness, but the Maners were too kind to get rid of them. The dogs at Arbella had the opposite problem, begging constantly to be put to work. The kennels, located a short distance behind the pasture, were new and state of the art; the old ones badly needed to be upgraded. Jonny noticed the need for improvement on his first visit to Arbella. The dogs in the old kennels could sense people coming from over a hundred feet away, which meant that even when people were just taking a walk up the road, the dogs got excited at the prospect of going out for a hunt and starting barking and jumping and whining until the person was finally out of earshot. The kennels had reminded him of jail cells: a row of about thirty fenced-in cubicles with a doggy-door in each one going into a long building that made up the fourth wall of the cells. Each dog had a bowl of water, cut roughly from recycled blue plastic containers. One of Jonny’s first projects at Arbella was to redo the kennels, which Robbie Manner happily funded, moving them farther away from the road to avoid false hopes of action and providing them with more shade and proper bowls. There was still the crescendo of howling and whimpering when people came near, but it was much less frequent. While Charlie was fitting James and Clark for stirrups, Jonny wandered over to the dog wagon attached to the jeep to make sure that Bone and the other four dogs that were going out that day were in good spirits. Bone lived at Jonny’s house, but Jonny always made him stay in the kennels the night before he was to go out for a hunt so that he would get riled up with anticipation and encouragement from the other dogs. It was customary to take out five dogs, which were about as many as could fit in the wagon. Two dogs would run around and scout out a covey, sniffing for quail, then stand silently on point, finally running in the direction of the falling birds and picking them up (gently) between their teeth to deposit them at Jonny’s feet. Then they would be switched out for two other dogs, and then back to the first two, and so on, with the fifth as an alternate in case a dog should get overtired or be uncooperative. The dogs were ready. Robbie Maner, James, and Clark were on their horses. Larry was sitting in the front seat of the jeep, which Charlie was ready to drive. Jonny climbed aboard Red, a spirited horse whose bad temperament only Jonny could ease. Charlie gunned the jeep forward, Jonny gave Red a little kick, and they were off. Just as only two dogs were dispatched at a time, only two men were allowed to be shooting at a time. Clark insisted that he would not go first, instead allowing for his guest to, and Robbie Maner deferred the honor to his brother, since he was not around as often. Once they got to their hunting area for the day, Charlie stopped the jeep to let out two of the dogs, Bone and Carol, named for Robbie Maner’s wife. Upon first being released, they ran around aimlessly, sniffing at the ground, urinating, mangy but still handsome in the way only hunting dogs can be. “That boy a Brittany?” Clark asked, gesturing down at Bone. “Yes, sir,” replied Jonny. “This here is Bone.” “You train him yourself?” Clark asked as they rode along being the dogs. “Yes, sir. Had him since he was a pup.” Jonny feigned a serious voice. “No special treatment for this guy, though. He’s knows that when it comes to the quail, he’s just one of the boys.” “I have a hard time believing that,” laughed Clark. Carol froze. “Woah,” said Jonny. The horses stopped. “She got something already?” asked Charlie from the jeep. “Looks like it,” said Jonny, climbing off his horse. Three hours later, they had hit twelve coveys (four of which were wild birds), which made for a successful morning. Jonny suggested that they start heading to Badger Pond for lunch. Three of the hunters were happy to: James had killed five birds, his brother six, and Clark ten. Larry, having killed only one bird, still had his gun out. He was soaked through with sweat. “I’m not ready for lunch,” he said. “I’d like to find some more coveys.” Everybody had expected him to be unreasonable at some point. Jonny opened his mouth, but James spoke first. “You know what they say, Larry,” he said good-naturedly. “Always good to quit while you’re ahead. When you think you should do one more, it’s time to stop.” Larry Croft stared straight ahead of him, not even glancing up at James on his horse. “Well, then, let’s hit two more coveys,” he said. “I think – “ “Great,” Jonny cut James off. “Two more coveys coming right up. We’ll hold off on lunch for another hour, that all right with everyone? I can radio Frank and tell him to keep the coals hot for us.” “No problem,” shrugged Clark. He looked apologetically at the Maner brothers, who were silent. Jonny climbed off of Red, handing his reins to Robbie Maner. Larry Croft hoisted himself out of the jeep. “You’re up, James-boy,” he said, pointing his gun at his host. The rules had been posted on the door to every cabin at Arbella since 1956. Never point a gun, even if unloaded, at anything that you do not intend to shoot. “Clark, you go on ahead. I’m done for the morning,” James insisted. “Who am I to turn you down?” Clark said as Jonny opened up the dog wagon. Most of the dogs were in much need of a rest. He let out Bone, in whom he had great faith, and Maggie, who had not yet been out. They ran around with their heads lowered, turning them from left to right as they scurried along. The men were on a path wide enough for the jeep, bordered on the right by the woods, and on the left by several acres of tall grass. Maggie headed into the woods, Bone into the grass. “Woah,” called Jonny quietly. “Woah,” as Maggie continued scurrying farther and farther away, and was about to blow his whistle to summon the dogs back when Bone stopped. Jonny wandered over to where he had paused, his tail erect and his back legs stretched diagonally. His ears stiffened and his nose twitched. “Whatcha got there, Bone?” asked Jonny. Clark and Larry approached behind him stealthily, their guns loaded and ready. Jonny quickly raised his whip and lashed it against the ground. The covey of birds immediately took flight with a distinct sound, some flying low for cover in the tall grass. Bone took off, and Clark aimed at one of the low birds. He fired. Something fell into the grass. It was larger than a quail, and Jonny ran over to where it was, shouting, “Don’t shoot!” as the birds scattered away and finally disappeared. “I didn’t even get a fucking shot!” cried Larry. James jumped off of his horse, handing another set of reins to Robbie Maner. He and Charlie ran over to where Jonny sat hunched over in the grass. Robbie Maner remained silent on his horse. He knew what had happened. Clark stood absolutely still, his mouth agape, his gun held loosely at the barrel in his left hand, while Larry stood with his arms crossed, muttering about Clark being a bird-hog. Bone had been shot in the right side of his stomach. He lay drawing heavy breaths as Jonny held his head in his lap. He made no effort to stop the bleeding, which was light given the wound; instead he gently stroked Bone’s head, whispering, “You’re a good boy, Bone, you’re a real good boy,” until the dog’s chest heaved for the last time and Bone lay motionless with his tongue, still wet, drooping out of his mouth on Jonny’s leg. James and Charlie stepped aside as Jonny scooped Bone up into his arms and walked slowly to the jeep. The dogs in the wagon were barking uncontrollably, and Maggie was back, jumping up and down in front of it. Jonny’s motions were almost robotic. He lay Bone down in the front seat of the jeep, curled up like he was sleeping. Charlie managed to get Maggie back into the wagon, and then took Red from Robbie Maner and climbed onto him. James squeezed Clark’s shoulders and whispered something to him, to which Clark shook his head slowly and closed his eyes. James got back onto his horse, and Clark got into the back of the jeep, unable to stand riding back after what he had done. Jonny got into the driver’s seat. Everybody was ready to go except Larry, who finally walked up to the jeep and gestured at Bone. “Dead dog’s in my seat,” he said. “Sit in the back,” Jonny said. It was the first time he had every said anything even remotely disrespectful to a guest. “Huh,” Larry Croft muttered, rolling his eyes. He climbed in next to Clark. The men on horseback, with Robbie Maner leading Clark’s horse, began their journey back to the hunting compound, as did the jeep, with the dogs in the wagon still howling. Larry spoke to Clark quietly enough so that it looked like he was making an effort to hide the conversation from Jonny, but loud enough so that it was clear that he intended for him to hear it. “What about the quail we shot?” he said. “They’re dead, and we don’t put those fuckers in the front seat. They go into his pockets,” he said, pointing at Jonny. “What about tomorrow, am I supposed to sit on a bloody seat? And when do we get lunch?” Clark was silent. Jonny was silent. The sounds from the wagon continued, making the ride almost unbearable. “Don’t mind if I shoot those pieces of shit back there, too,” Larry muttered. A pause. Then, “You fuckers acting like it’s a big fucking tragedy. You know what I say?” He stopped for a moment, as if he was contemplating whether or not to say anything at all. “You know what I say?” he repeated, then, without skipping a beat, “Dinner is served.” He had said it slowly and proudly, clearly pleased with himself. “Hell, they do it in Vietnam, you know? Doggie stew.” He barked in imitation. Clark turned to Larry suddenly and wrapped both of his hands around his neck. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you,” he said. When they got back, Charlie took it upon himself to take care of everything: putting the dogs away, undressing the horses, and cleaning out the jeep, even though Jonny and the jeep had arrived a half-hour before the men on horses did. He had immediately picked up Bone and disappeared into his office, entirely ignoring Clark and Larry and the yelping dogs. Before brushing down the horses and leading them back to the pasture, Charlie went to the wagon and let the dogs out, walking with them to the kennels. Having stopped barking, perhaps in appreciation, they stepped in obediently, not answering the greetings of the dogs who had stayed in all day.. Not twenty feet away, in between two trees, Jonny stood shoveling dirt on top of something. Behind the mound of dirt, he had nailed together two white boards in a cross, with the horizontal arm reading BONE in black paint. All of the dogs were finally silent. That night they tried to have dinner as usual, but Clark refused to come to the table, even after both James and Robbie Maner had stopped by his cabin to try to lift his spirits. James sat at the head of the table with Robbie Maner on his left and Larry on his right. The meal that they had was quiet and awkward, but civil. The brothers had not, after all, heard Larry in the jeep. Clark, meanwhile, had made his way over to Jonny’s house, which was a fifteen-minute walk away. After he knocked on the door, he expected it to be answered by the same devastated man that he had last seen that afternoon. But Jonny was bright and smiling as he greeted Clark, as if he had been expecting him and thus had practiced the routine. He had showered and changed his clothes; there were no traces of blood, dirt, or Bone on him. He opened the door. “Hey there, Mr. Spencer, sir,” he said. “Won’t you come on in?” Clark stepped into the house nervously. “Jo – Mr. Haney, I – “ “Sit down,” Jonny said cordially, pulling up two chairs to the fire that he had started before Clark’s arrival. Even when the days were hot, the nights were unfailingly cold. There was a solid minute where neither of them spoke. Clark was the one with an agenda, and as kind as Jonny was trying to be, he could not bring himself to make idle conversation, ignoring the elephant in the room. Finally, eyes down, Clark spoke. “I’ve been hunting for more than forty years,” he began. “I started out sticking cans in woodpiles and using them as targets for my dad’s rifle.” He laughed. “It took me a while to start using his shotgun on the clay pigeons because of the kick and everything, but he – my dad, that is – used to say I was good. He took me out for my first hunt when I was fourteen, and I never had such a good time. And so I kept doing it, and I try to do it whenever I can.” He leaned forward, lowering his elbows onto his thighs, and looked Jonny in the eye. “I’ve been with many guides. I’ve hunted with many dogs. I see the way men are with the ones they’ve raised themselves.” He leaned back again and shut his eyes. “Maybe you don’t think too highly of men like me, trying to have the best of both worlds.” Another minute passed before Clark spoke again. “I should never have shot that low today.” He kept his eyes closed. “I thought that your dog was clear, and I thought I could make the shot, and – I want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I killed your boy Bone. I’m sorry that I froze up afterwards. I’m sorry that he was so terrible about it. I am embarrassed and ashamed.” He opened his eyes again, and they filled with tears. “I’ve never felt so guilty in my life.” Jonny had been listening with a sympathetic half-smile the whole time. After speaking, Clark sat there staring at him, chin trembling, until Jonny stood up and put out his hand for him to shake. Clark immediately rose to grab it, and as they stood there, Jonny said, “Bone was a real good dog.” He bit his lip. “He was the best.” And then, relaxing again, “But I’ve got no problem with people who mean no harm. And, Mr. Spencer, sir, I know that you mean no harm.” Jonny pulled back his hand. Clark pulled himself together. “I know that Bone must have meant a whole lot to you,” he said. “A lot more than any amount of money. But the truth of the matter is, he was a great breed and he was well trained. I want you to take this, not as payment for Bone’s life, but just as – “ He stopped with his hand extended, holding out a check that was folded in two. Jonny took it, nodding his head once in thanks. “Mr. Haney,” he said on his way out the door, “I don’t think I’m ever going to go hunting again.” And for two years, he didn’t. After Clark left the house, Jonny put the check, which was for three thousand dollars, into a drawer by his bed and decided to wander over to the hunting compound to visit at Bone’s grave and to check on the horses. His path led him to the horses first. From a distance he had heard feral cries and what sounded like screams, so he quickened his pace. It was a bright night, and as he neared the pasture fence, he saw Larry Croft, visibly drunk, leaning over it and hollering, clutching the gun that he had brought for the hunt in his right hand. All of the horses had retreated to the far end of the pasture where they would not be bothered by the noise, except for one. Jonny stopped where Larry could not sense him as he sized up what was going on. He was surprised that the dogs had not been woken up. Larry was singing, but it sounded more like shouting. “WIIILD, WIIILD HORSESSS!” he barked. “WE’LL RIDE THEM SOME DAAAY!” “Jesus Christ,” Jonny said softly to himself. It was self-destructive and bound to end in disaster, but still, Jonny could not compel himself to move. The horse, relatively far away but still discernable by its outline and loud cries, moved back and forth uncomfortably. “You bastard!” screamed Larry. The fence was only about chest-high and had three levels. He had been standing on the first. Tucking the gun under his armpit, he stepped onto the second, and it sagged under his weight. Jonny took a step forward, careful not to make too much noise. “WIIILD, WIIILD HORSESSS!” Larry began to shout-sing again. The horse exhaled loudly and continued to sway back and forth. Larry was encouraging it to advance, but it refused. “FUCK YOU!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, then, drawing out each word as long as his breath would allow, again shouted, “FUUUCK YOOOUUUUU!” stepping onto the top beam of the fence as he screamed. The top beam was narrow, but he gained his balance and threw his arms out victoriously, clutching the gun at the top so that if it went off accidentally it would have blown off his hand. Jonny could not bear it anymore. “Mr. Croft,” he said loudly, stepping forward. Larry remained on the fence, not bothering to turn around. He had stopped his uproar, but the horse was still swaying nervously, snorting and pawing the ground. As Jonny got closer, he saw that it was Red. “Why don’t you get on down from there, sir?” Jonny said firmly. Larry lowered his arms. Jonny stood there patiently as he seemed to weigh his options. Trying again, more gently, “We’re not going hunting ‘til morning, sir, and you’re going to get your gun dirty.” Larry still did not speak, leading Jonny to believe that perhaps he had been successful. Jonny took two steps forward and stopped. He was within three feet of the fence. Then, throwing his arms out again, Larry screamed “FUUUCK YOOOUUUUU!” and shook his head wildly, waving his arms and his gun as he drew out each word, until his right foot slipped out from under him, and he leaned forward to keep from falling backward, and ended up sailing onto Red’s side of the fence, hitting his shoulder on the ground before flopping belly-first into stillness. His gun landed after him on the other side of the fence near Jonny’s feet, and as it hit the ground it discharged into the air. Red gave one last whinny before tearing away as fast as he could in the opposite direction. The dogs began barking all at once, aroused by the familiar sound. Jonny picked up the gun. Then, walking over to the gate, he opened it and stepped inside the pasture, moving slowly over to Larry and then shaking him until he was awake. He helped him up. “Come with me,” he said gravely. Jonny sat up all night after walking Larry back to his cabin. It was a shame, he thought, that he hadn’t made it to Bone’s grave that night. The next morning, when Robbie Maner called him to cancel the hunt, Jonny was not surprised. In the panic of the previous afternoon, it had been unclear as to whether the next three days would be as planned or not. He remembered that Clark had said he would not be hunting anymore, and he seemed like he meant it, and James and Robbie Maner were not the type to maintain a façade in the face of so much ugliness. But Robbie Manner did not mention Bone or Clark when he called. When one of the employees entered Larry’s cabin to light a fire that morning, she found him dead outside his bedroom door. All sorts of arrangements had to be made, so Robbie Maner suggested that Jonny head to Colorado for the rest of the week. “Oh, that’s just fine, Mr. Robbie,” Jonny said, and he hung up the phone, sitting for another minute before calling his wife. back to Spring 2007 Table of Contents |